Page 34 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Nineteen

Eoin

I don’t think I’ve ever fucked up quite like this.

Prince Nicholas sits across the conference table, one leg crossed over the other with his usual elegance. The small butterfly bandage on his forehead makes something feral wake up in my chest, makes me want to pin him against a wall and check every inch of him for other injuries.

In the brutal aftermath of an attack against a member of the royal family, with a room full of security personnel and palace officials picking apart how we fucked up, all I can think about is the taste of him when I kissed him like the world was ending.

My career, my mission, my professional integrity…all shattered because I couldn’t control myself when faced with the terror of almost losing him.

That terror is still inside me. It’s clawing at my chest with phantom fingers, making me sweat in this air-conditioned room. My body remembers the moment I saw him dive toward that attacker, how my guts turned to water.

Every time I blink, I see him bleeding, see him falling, see the infinite possibilities of how he could have been hurt.

Is this normal? The terror inside me seems to come from a deep place.

It’s a type of terror that only comes when you realize you care about something at the moment you’re about to lose it.

Malcolm pulls up security footage from the naval base.

The screens on the wall light up, displaying multiple camera angles of the attack.

I force myself to watch with professional detachment as chaos unfolds across the monitors.

The smoke grenade. The flash-bangs. Nicholas running toward the children instead of to safety.

My breath catches as Nicholas moves on screen with that fluid grace that’s become my obsession.

I can still feel the ghost of his mouth on mine, while fury and fear war inside my chest.

“This was a coordinated attack.” Cavendish’s voice is tight. “Five operatives, military precision, in-depth knowledge of our security protocols.”

The wall screen flickers to life with the faces of our London contingent, looking like a budget version of Hollywood Squares.

Pierce appears first, his wire-rim glasses slightly askew like he’s been rubbing his temples.

Probably because of my lack of progress on this case, which potentially helped lead to this outcome.

The Lord Chamberlain materializes next, somehow managing to look both deeply concerned and mildly nauseated. Lady Powell from the Foreign Office rounds out our digital tribunal.

All of them wear similar expressions to disappointed parents at a particularly shite school parents’ evening.

“Her Majesty has been briefed on the situation,” The Lord Chamberlain, Sir Fergus, announces. “She is naturally concerned and wishes to be kept apprised of all developments.”

“The situation is contained,” Cavendish replies. “All suspects are in custody, and Prince Nicholas received only minor injuries.”

“We need to decide about the remainder of the tour. The press coverage is already extensive.” James pulls up several news sites on his tablet and projects them beside the video feeds. “They are all painting Prince Nicholas as heroic rather than reckless.”

Headlines flash across the screen:

Royal Rumble: Prince Headbutts Attacker in Daring Escape

Warrior Prince: Nicholas Channels Medieval Ancestors in Battle

Royal Tour Under Siege

Sir Fergus has a thin-lipped frown. “Heroic or not, the palace’s primary concern is the feasibility of the remainder of the tour. If there are credible threats to the prince on the New Zealand leg of the tour, perhaps it would be prudent to postpone.”

Across the table, Nicholas tenses. The word “postpone” clearly isn’t in his vocabulary.

“The suspects aren’t speaking, but the evidence suggests this was a highly localized operation,” Cavendish says. “They appear to have detailed knowledge of the Darwin Naval Base and Australian security protocols, but nothing to indicate preparedness for New Zealand.”

“Intelligence reports no suspicious increase in activity in New Zealand,” Pierce speaks up.

“That could mean they haven’t activated their New Zealand cell yet,” I point out.

“The diplomatic implications of canceling the New Zealand visit would be significant,” Lady Powell speaks up. “The Commonwealth relies on these symbols of continuity, especially with republican sentiment on the rise.”

I can’t contain myself. “With all due respect, Lady Powell, diplomatic implications should be secondary to keeping the prince alive.”

Nicholas shoots me a look that could freeze hell. The eye contact sends a jolt through my body.

The members of the protection team turn to look at me too. Singh gives me a look like I’ve grown a second head, and Malcolm’s fingers have paused over his tablet. Even Blake’s eyebrows have climbed toward her hairline.

Fuck. I’ve just broken character. That’s not how Officer O’Connell, career protection officer, would respond. It’s Detective Sergeant O’Connell talking, the man who’s used to having opinions in briefings that matter.

“That is a valid point, but we must balance security with duty. The monarchy has faced threats before without retreating,” Sir Fergus says.

“There’s the fact that they seem to know aspects of our security,” Cavendish says, his voice tight. “Combined with the spider incident, it’s clear we have a significant breach. Someone with intimate knowledge of our movements, our protocols…”

He trails off, and the temperature in the room drops about ten degrees. Blake’s hand drifts unconsciously toward her concealed weapon. Singh’s face goes blank. Davis’s boyish face actually drains of color when he realizes what Cavendish isn’t quite saying.

“So we change the protocols,” Nicholas says suddenly.

All eyes turn to him.

“We create new ones, on the fly if necessary. We alter routes, change timing, adjust the schedule without advance notice,” he continues.

Cavendish looks physically pained by this suggestion. “Sir, security planning isn’t meant to be improvisational.”

“Neither is it meant to be predictable to our adversaries,” Nicholas counters smoothly. “If someone is feeding them information, let’s give them the wrong information.”

I’m reluctantly impressed by his tactical thinking.

Although I still want to shake the stubborn bastard for not simply accepting the safer option of returning to London.

“The public optics need consideration as well,” Lady Powell interjects. “Cutting the tour short after an attack sends a message of vulnerability. Continuing shows strength and resolve.”

“It also exposes Prince Nicholas to further danger,” I say, my voice sharp. And fuck it, my cover as a standard protection officer is going to pieces faster than wet cardboard. But every time someone suggests putting Nicholas in danger, something raw in my gut overrides my years of training.

I might as well tattoo emotionally compromised on my forehead at this rate.

Nicholas turns to me, one eyebrow raised. “Are you suggesting my security team isn’t up to the task, Officer O’Connell?”

“I’m suggesting that unnecessary risk is still unnecessary, sir.” I match his gaze steadily.

“The very nature of my position involves risk,” Nicholas says. “Always has, always will. The question is whether we let that risk dictate our actions.”

“The Queen has authorized me to make the final determination based on this briefing,” the Lord Chamberlain cuts in. “I need a consensus from the security team. Can Prince Nicholas’s safety be reasonably assured in New Zealand?”

Cavendish glances around at all of us before answering. “With significant adjustments to our protocols and full cooperation from New Zealand authorities…yes. It’s a calculated risk, but manageable.”

Sir Fergus nods slowly. “And the medical team has cleared the Prince to travel?”

“Minor contusions and abrasions only,” James confirms.

Nicholas sits back in his chair, the faintest hint of a triumphant smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

The same mouth I claimed so thoroughly just hours ago. The taste of him lingers on my lips, like a ghost I can’t exorcise.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Very well,” Sir Fergus says. “The tour will continue with enhanced security measures. We’ll brief Her Majesty accordingly.”

The meeting dissolves into logistics after that. Travel arrangements, security details, press statements.

Throughout it all, I’m painfully aware of every shift in Nicholas’s posture, every tap of his fingers against the table. His voice as he contributes to the security discussions is sharp and focused, not the lazy royal playboy drawl he often hides behind.

It’s like watching someone finally play with a full deck after pretending they only had half the cards.

And it only makes me want him more. I can admit this want to myself now, acknowledge it for the threat it is. The want has teeth, clawing at my ribs from the inside.

This isn’t just attraction anymore—it’s a full-blown fucking disaster.

What happens in New Zealand? What happens the next time we’re alone?

The questions chase each other through my mind like wolves after prey.

As the meeting wraps up, Nicholas is the first to rise. The other officials scramble to their feet like startled birds, but Nicholas doesn’t wait for their deference. He simply nods once to Sir Fergus on screen, then turns for the door.

His eyes catch mine for a split second as he passes. That blue gaze carries an electric charge that makes my fingers twitch with the memory of his skin under my hands.

Then he’s gone.

I wait a respectable five minutes before making my own exit.

My hotel room feels like a sanctuary when I finally shut the door behind me. I lean against it as if it might actually keep the world at bay.

As if it might undo the choices I’ve made today and their unseeable consequences.

My phone buzzes, Malachy’s face appearing on the screen.

I grab at it. It’s a chance for some normality, a chance to remind myself who I am.

“You alive then?” Malachy demands the moment I answer, no greeting whatsoever.

“Last I checked.”

“Well, thanks for letting me know. Had to hear about this terrorist attack on the bloody news, didn’t I? Like I’m some random stranger instead of your only brother.” I can hear the worry under his gruffness.

“It all happened pretty fast.” I rub my temple where a headache is threatening. “I’m fine. Everyone’s fine.”

“That’s not what the BBC is saying. They’re talking about some coordinated attack, professional terrorists, the works. And your prince went and headbutted someone? What kind of security operation are you running there?”

Your prince. The casual phrase hits me like a blow to the chest. I swallow hard.

“It’s under control,” I lie. Nothing is under control, least of all the riot of emotions I’m battling. “Look, Mal, I can’t talk details. You know that.”

He grunts in reluctant acknowledgment. “Just…check in more, yeah? Nearly had a bloody heart attack seeing your job site on the news with ‘terrorist attack’ scrolling underneath.”

The worry in his voice makes my chest tight.

“I will. Anyway, how are you doing? Anything new with the basketball league?”

“Don’t change the subject,” he says, but then he launches into a story about his last game.

I half listen to him, grateful for five minutes where I can pretend I’m just his eejit brother instead of whatever the fuck I’ve become here.

I’ve barely set the phone down when it buzzes again, this time it’s Scotland Yard. As expected.

The secure line connects with that particular static that encryption causes. Before I can even settle into the chair, DCS Martin Thornton’s gruff Yorkshire accent cuts through.

“Tell me you’ve made progress identifying our insider, O’Connell.”

My grip tightens on the phone. “Today’s attack involved at least five operatives with detailed knowledge of our security protocols. They knew exactly when and where to strike. But no one in the protection team cooperated with the attackers.”

“Which means they’re still maintaining cover.” Frustration is threaded through Thornton’s voice. “Do you have any suspects?”

I picture Davis’s nervous energy, Malcolm’s meticulous attention to security feeds, Singh’s unreadable blank face that he gets sometimes. “Nothing solid. They’re all acting normal enough.”

“Not good enough,” Thornton growls. “I’ve just seen the report on the recovered syringe. It contained a powerful sedative, not a lethal agent.”

My gut bottoms out. “They wanted him alive.”

“Exactly. Just like with Matheson and Webley. This wasn’t an assassination attempt. It was a kidnapping operation.”

“What’s the connection?” I ask. “Conservative leader, a Labour politician, now Prince Nicholas…”

“The apprehended subjects were Malaysian, Canadian, Bangladeshi, and South African,” Pierce’s voice cuts in—he must be on the call too. “Four different countries, four different backgrounds. The only commonality is military or security training.”

“So this isn’t connected to Australian indigenous protesters.”

“No. This is international, professional. Just like the Matheson-Webley case,” Thornton confirms. “No religious extremist connections. No Russian state involvement. No clear political ideology.”

I stand, pacing the cramped hotel room. “Someone’s recruiting highly skilled operatives from across the globe. That level of coordination requires serious resources.”

“And serious planning,” Pierce agrees.

“What’s their end game? Political leverage? Ransom? Why do they want him?”

“Unknown. But Prince Nicholas remains a target, and someone close to him is providing intelligence,” Thornton says grimly. “You need to work out how to stop them before there’s another attempt. Because the next one might succeed where this failed.”

The secure line clicks off, leaving me staring at my reflection in the window.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Five trained operatives came for him today. Next time it could be ten. Or twenty.

And somewhere among the people sworn to protect him is one person potentially positioned to betray him.

I’m meant to be the solution—Pierce’s hand-picked detective, the one who can spot a liar at fifty paces.

But instead, wanting Nicholas like this is potentially making me the most dangerous person in his protection team.